Satanic Music For Good Children

Monday, October 26, 2015

Zodiac Mindwarp and the Love Reaction. If that name made you grin, you know of the
band. The year was 1988. Tattooed
Beat Messiah was released (some fools would say “dropped” these days), and
the world of hard rock would never be quite the same. I was a fan from the first track, which was
the “Wolf Child Speech.” It was over the
top. Ridiculous. Not to be taken seriously. Perfect.
It was what hard rock should be.

It’s no surprise that this band came out of the same era
that gave us Sigue Sigue Sputnik (affordable firepower), Adam and the Ants, and
Mötley Crüe.

The music was blistering and the lyrics didn’t take
themselves all too seriously … or at least one hoped they didn’t. Zodiac Mindwarp (Mark Manning) put a lot of
swagger in those tales of debauchery, and that’s what made it so great. Sure, there were other bands out there of
this ilk that sang songs of wine and women, but none looked or sounded like
this one, and few seemed so real.

Zodiac Mindwarp and the Love Reaction never got much of a following
here in America. It made an appearance
here and there, and some college stations played its songs, but for the most
part it was merely a footnote in musical history, while insipid garbage like
Mr. Big (1989 actually marked the band’s debut album, but it was formed in
1988) captured audiences’ ears and hearts
-- easy listening for the easily distracted. I don’t know why this was the case, but
perhaps it was due to the fact that Zodiac Mindwarp and company looked like a
bunch of coke-up bikers who may be Nazis while Mr. Big looked like a bunch of
Bon Jovi fans from the Midwest who dreamed of playing the Cloverfield County
Fair. Me? I’ll take biker Nazis over cowboys any day. The rest of America, sadly, didn’t feel the
same way. Oh, what could’ve been…

Thursday, October 22, 2015

Man, when it comes to a label that has a knack for getting
great one-man bands, nothing beats Voodoo Rhythm Records. Case in point? Hank Haint. He even covers an old GG Allin song (“Don’t Talk to Me”)! How could you possibly go wrong with this guy?

On May 25, 2012, Blackout
was released on an unsuspecting world. You,
the listener, is first subjected to “Keep on Walking.” You think, “This can’t possibly be a one-man
band.” You are, of course, wrong. Just like the times you thought there wasn’t
a cop around and that one time you swore she was 18.

There are 12 other songs (including the Allin cover) that
will only serve to strengthen your disbelief.
When you think about the fact that he only started working as a solo act
five years earlier, you will chastise yourself for wasting the last half decade
doing … what? Not this, that’s for
sure.

Blues trash with a punk attitude is how this music has been
described. That is about as accurate a
description as one will get. It’s too
raw for the “hip” crowd., and too obscure for mainstream music lover. It’s in that void to be enjoyed only by the
daring and the lucky.

Of course, this may not be your thing at all. You may lean more toward pop or, Heaven
forbid, hip hop. You may be wondering
what the fuss is about. It’s one guy,
after all. How hard can that be? He goes into the studio, lays a track,
switches instruments and lays another track.
Well, he performs live, too. And
not with a backing band. One man. Many instruments. The touch of death!

My only complaint? I
would’ve moved “Pissing in the Sink” to the last track. It is the perfect way to end an album. As it stands, “Untitled,” the last song,
isn’t a horrible way to end it (and one can easily see why it is the last
song), but “Pissing in the Sink” would have been the feather in this mighty
cap. If that is the only complaint one
can muster, you know it is a solid release.

Roy and the Devil’s Motorcycle has been around 20
years. You’ve most likely never heard of
the band. For the uninitiated, it
combines blues, garage, psychedelica and some folk to create a sound unlike
most anything else out there. “Unique” doesn’t
do it justice. Three brothers. Guitars.
Truth. It is primitive. It is otherworldly. It is necessary listening for those who think
outside the box.

Adding another feather to its ornate cap, the band has done
the soundtrack to a documentary about Martin “Tino” Schippert, aka Frozen
Angel. Tino was the first Swiss
president of the Hell’s Angels. He
started as an activist. He ended up dead
in Bolivia. Without seeing the film, I
must say that the story itself would have me intrigued, but the music only
serves to heighten my curiosity. It is
eight songs of primarily instrumental swirl, with snippets of the movie
seemingly thrown in. I can imagine its
place in the documentary, and I must say it seems to fit the subject matter, as
well. It is unlike most soundtracks I’ve
heard, and that’s a good thing. If music
could be ephemeral…

If you are a film soundtrack collector (I know you are out
there – I used to be one), then this is something you must look into. If you like any of the musical descriptions I
gave, this must also be sought out post haste.
Granted, it is not for everyone … or even most people … but that’s
because the majority of people have no idea what they are missing and would
rather stick with the tried-and-true over the dirty unknown. This is for the seekers of the unusual, the
transgressive, the bizarre … music for music lovers. Those who look at music as art, and not as
entertainment. Forge onward, brave
bastards. This is the soundtrack to your
dreams.

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

The first release I ever bought by the Exploited was the
1986 cassette,Live at the Whitehouse. I had heard the band a few times on our local
college radio station, and I liked what I heard, so I set out to the music
store to procure whatever Exploited I could get my hands on (which is how one
bought music in the days before downloading).
The store I went to wasn’t well-stocked with anything but pop and heavy
metal, and Live at the Whitehouse was
the only Exploited to be had. As it
stands, it wasn’t a great listening experience, as those who have heard it can
attest to.

If you are familiar with the Exploited, a live album
delivers exactly what you’d expect. The
sound is raw, angry and turns to buzzsaw noise in spots. The release I bought was a full live show and
featured some great songs, including “Let’s Start a War,” “Horror Epics,”
“Wankers,” “I Hate You,” “Dogs of War,” “Sex and Violence,” and “Punk’s Not
Dead.” That’s a satisfying line-up of
classic Exploited songs despite the dodgy sound. Couple that with cover art that shows a
partially destroyed Capitol Building (not the White House, oddly enough) and
you can’t help but capture a young punk’s heart.

The band, which has had roughly 3,859 members through its
years of existence, has always had its share of controversy, and violence
followed many of its shows. (I wasn’t
there when it played Airport City Music Hall in PA, but I heard that white
power skins maced singer Wattie when he took the stage. For those who remember shows at that venue,
skinheads were a constant source of misery, as were the bouncers. The reason
for the attack was Wattie’s anti-American beliefs.) For many, the Exploited has always symbolized
the best and worst of what punk rock was and should be. For me, it was just an energetic, politically
angry band that seemed more interested in slogans than real change. It was entertaining, but nothing I’d formulate
a political philosophy around. (Remember
the Barmy Army?)

Live at the Whitehouse
may have been my first Exploited purchase, but it was far from my last. Sometimes those purchases felt shameful, like
when I would purchase really creepy porn from seedy shops reeking of bleach and
sweat, but others were moments of sheer celebration. Not every release was worthy of the effort it
took to make it, but all of them had moments of sublime chaos. (My own sublime chaos that was linked to the
Exploited came when one of the releases was playing on the car stereo as my
friends and I were engaged in a high speed chase with a cop. We were winning the race, the flashing cop
lights not making the best headway, when we flipped the car. We slid something like 116 feet on the roof
until we hit a boulder. As I spat out
windshield glass, the cop on the scene told us to get away from the car I was
still inside because gas was flooding out and he thought it would explode. The Exploited
continued to play on the stereo.
Surreal.)

These days the band doesn’t much resemble that which it was
in 1986, which is a good thing. Bands
should evolve over time. I’m not sure
that what the Exploited has become is much worth pursuing, but seeing its skull
logo on a shirt still brings a smile to my face even if the new music leaves me
kind of cold. I will say, however, that
the later stuff is far more cohesive and better produced than the band’s
earlier releases. It’s as if the band
took the power of metal and matched it with the anger of punk and came up with
something that works for it. That said,
it doesn’t fully work for me.

Monday, September 1, 2014

The Groovie Ghoulies is my favorite band named after a
cartoon. Alas, the band no longer
records its version of pop punk tunes, but the memories linger on.

Recently I was driving to work listening to the Freaks on Parade release. It first came out in 2001 on Stardumb and was
later re-released by Surfin’ Ki 13 years later.
If that isn’t a testament to the band’s sound, nothing is. Listening to it reminded me of how timeless
the music sounded. It was fresh. Upbeat.
It could’ve been recorded the day before. All good music (except the blues) should
sound that way. (The blues, it should be
noted, should always take place in the past.
It gets its magic from a time period long expired, and while the sound
remains strong, it does not and should not sound contemporary.)

We all have these bands we forget about for a few years, and
once we break them out again and give them a listen we wonder why we waited so
long in the first place. Driving through
the Humboldt mist was one of those moments, brought on by not one particular
song, but all of them. I thought back to
my when I did my ‘zine. I thought back
to different times, different mindsets. Different
everything.

I wasn’t riding a nostalgia trip. I wasn’t pining for the old days or lamenting
how today’s music leaves me cold for the most part. I was just, not to sound too California
stupid, being “in the moment.” The air
was cool on my face. The wipers did the
occasional whisk across the windshield.
I had the stereo cranked, not to assault the pedestrians, but to immerse
myself in that mindset albeit briefly.

I’m not the biggest fan of pop punk. I tend to like my music with more of an edge,
but this was a band I could get behind.
I tolerate a lot of pop punk bands, but this one was always
different. That misty morning reminded
me why. Say what you want about it, but
it is still one of the best things to come out of Sacramento.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

The idea behind Boogie the Church Down is simple. It’s the
Juke Joint Pimps versus the Gospel Pimps.
Blues versus gospel Louisiana style.
The end result is that Voodoo Rhythm Records has another winner in a
long line of champions.

Harmonica.
Drums. Guitar. Choir-like choruses. It’s 14 songs that my daughter found
incredibly odd and “old-time” sounding.
That it is, and I love it. It’s a
combination that works. In fact, it is
so cohesive that even after hearing it you may wonder where one band begins and
the other ends. I’ll tell you: it
doesn’t matter.

Songs like “I Feel Guilty,” “Juke Joint in the Sky,” “King
Roland’s Prayer” and “Keep Your Arms Around Me” are pure pleasures. They fit in at church or a dark bar. They cause toes to tap and heads to nod. They inspire sinful hip gyrations and
animalistic copulations. Praise the Lord
and pass the salt, Momma needs a spanking tonight. These songs, for better or for worse, are a
celebration of life and all that comes with it.

I listened to this CD almost exclusively for two weeks
before writing a review for it, as it was important to me that it sunk in
properly before I tried to break it down into what worked. Even now, however, I’m not sure I can do it
right. The fuzzy vocals coming from my
speakers seem so organic, yet so powerful … I’m not sure there are proper words
for what this release does to listeners.

“King Roland’s Prayer” asks why it always rains on the
song’s crooner. It’s an honest
question. The answer, however, isn’t
what’s presented in the song. It rains
because the music is magic. Old blues is
magic. Gospel is magic. Poverty row pontifications in song are magic. It changes the elements. It mutates.
It devastates. That’s the answer. Both line-ups, though, would argue that. That’s fine just as long as they do it in
song. Anything else would be a
tremendous waste of talent.

Saturday, May 24, 2014

Die Zorros’ Future
is exactly what you’d expect of the band … and then some. The band’s second release on Voodoo RhythmRecords is 17 songs of their own design and creative covers (mostly
instrumental) of some other acts like Amy Winehouse (“No No No,” the opening
song), Black Sabbath (“Black Sabbath”), the Rolling Stones (“Paint it Black”),
the Beatles (“Walrus Eats Taxmen”), and Rod Stewart (“Sailing”). The band’s original numbers include “The
Shark,” “Zorros in Afrika” and “Streets of Baltimore.” Again, all are primarily instrumental.

To understand Die Zorros’ sound, you have to picture a
garage surf band tinged with some psychedelica.
There really is no better way to describe it. I guess you could add some jazz and metal to
it, too. Not bad for a band that claims
it started as a theatre and poetry slam project.

The release is available on CD, LP and cassette for all you
completists out there. It may seem like
a step backward (despite the album title), but it actually makes sense. Voodoo Rhythm always puts music ahead of
everything else, and while it doesn’t long for days past, it also doesn’t
ignore it, either. MP3s are cold. Cassettes bring back high school memories,
back when discovering new music was harder than just logging on and doing a
Google search. Future is that gem you would find, hoard and only share with a few
like-minded people.

And while I hate the Beatles, I must say that this cover is
light years ahead of anything that band did.
Thanks to Die Zorros, I can even now tolerate a Fab Four number. Who would have seen that coming?

Mandatory FTC Disclaimer: I received this to review. Clicking on a link may earn me some dough!

Saturday, November 2, 2013

2011 marked 25 years of the Monsters’ existence. 25 years of garage rock psychostomp. 25 years of Switzerland’s own making what is
decidedly American music better than Americans.
With Pop Up Yours, out on the
legendary Voodoo Rhythm label, the Monsters solidifies its stranglehold on the
world.

This release is 14 songs that maintain that patented
Monsters sound while at the same time sounding a bit more polished than
previous releases. That rawness the band
is known for remains, but it is a pristine raw, if that makes any sense. Think of Metallica’s Kill ‘Em All versus the black album. Then think the opposite. That is pristine raw.

“I Want You” opens the CD, and there is no mistaking what
band you are hearing. It’s a great way
to start the release, and it captures your attention immediately, and you
attention will be held until the final number, “Into the Void,” which is a
moody, slightly sinister piece. In
between there are 12 other songs that are just as catchy and destructive, like
candy dynamite. “More You Talk, Less I
Hear You,” “Ce Soir,” “Ain’t Crawling Back to You No More” – there is no stand
out because they all stand out. It’s a
Monsters release. What do you expect?

At this point in my life I have exactly one band related
tattoo. That tattoo is from a Monsters
press release from years ago. There is a
reason why that is the only one, and this release exemplifies it. It is one of the few bands that is timeless
and I know won’t disappoint whenever it releases something new. I can’t say that about many, but I can
confidently say it about this one.

If you haven’t heard the Monsters before, this is an
excellent place to start. Frankly, any
of the band’s releases are a good place to start, but this one may be the one
that can honestly ease you into the experience.
Every other one kind of just throws you into the pool when you least
expect it. This one just gives a gentle
nudge. Either way, you end soaking in
it.

Mandatory FTC Disclaimer: I received this to review. Clicking on a link may cause me to earn a commission.

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

It’s 8:38 a.m. on a Friday morning as I write this. Humboldt County is at 42 degrees. The sun is creeping over the trees and a bird
is chirping incessantly somewhere near my bathroom window. Outside, the morning’s music is shattered by
a car stereo blaring some kind of country tune.

It seems that the people around here with loud car stereos only
play hip hop or country. I never hear
anything I’d define as “good.”

This obsession with assaulting the world with your music
seems odd to me. I’ve witnessed males
(and it is usually males who do this), turn up the stereo at the approach of a
young lady/teen girl. It’s the
equivalent of showing their pretty feathers.
“Look at me,” it says. “I have
Kayne playing!” I’ve never seen these
ladies just hop into the car and rip their tops off unless they were
hookers. (If that’s the case, you don’t
need the music, chaps. Just wave a
Jackson around.) In fact, most of these
ladies ignore them and go on about their day.
Dejected, the young men will speed off looking for some new, easier
conquest. Perhaps a drunk aunt.

Music as a mating ritual is nothing new. Barry White is often the one that comes to
mind. Prince. Justin.
Skinny Puppy. You name it. Almost every band has had one of its songs
used to woo a potential conquest into bed or onto his or her knees. It is kinder and more legal than a date rape
drug. It shows insight into the hunter’s
interests. It lets the hunter know if
his or her prey is worthy of his or her advances. Music, when used to induce sex, is a far more
interesting and accurate barometer than, say, the clothes you are wearing. A woman should not be expecting romance if
her beau puts on Cannibal Corpse and starts stripping off his clothes. However, if she starts stripping in turn,
that beau knows he is going to be in for a good time.

If you want my body, and you think I'm sexy ...

I always thought it would be amusing to invite some
potential sexual conquest into the Compound for a little experiment. I’d have a few candles lit for mood
lighting. I’d do my best to charm and
seduce her. Say all the right things,
make all the proper compliments. I’d
then ask if she’d like to hear a little music.
She would, of course, agree to that.
Why? It offers a break. While I get up to put on a CD, she can think
things over. “Do I want to do this? What if he thinks I’m fat? Did I shave?
Yes. Does he care? What will he think of that Ohio State
University tattoo on my ass?” In the
span of time that it takes to get up off the couch to put a CD into the player,
she can either commit to the act or find a way out. She doesn’t need the music. She needs time. And time is what I give her … and then I
start the CD.

Kidz Bop Volume 23. Tiny voices singing “Let Me Love You.”

She realizes she has made a terrible mistake … or she thinks
it’s really funny and takes her clothes off because nothing gets to a woman
like humor. Either way, it’s a win win
for me as long as she doesn’t run from the house and call the police to report
me as some weird pedophile.

You can have your Kanye and whatever else you think
works. I’ll take a chorus of
prepubescent voices singing in high-pitched tandem any day of the week. If that doesn't scream romance, nothing does.

Friday, September 27, 2013

I’ve been lucky enough to interview a lot of bands, big and
small, in my time. I’ve done it for
‘zines, magazines and websites. Along
the way I’ve even been able to interview a few favorites of mine, too. Some of those interviews have been
great. Others were … not. Only one band, however, stands out as the
worst band interview I've ever done. But
first, an explanation of how the whole thing works.

When I interview bands the process starts in one of three
ways: I either contact the band myself with the hopes I can get the interview
picked up by a magazine or website, I get assigned the interview by a
publisher, or a band (or its PR people) contacts me. When I go freelance, I pick the bands, which
means I’m selecting bands I like or that I think have something interesting to
say. When I get assigned a band to
interview, it means I either have to accept the assignment or decline it. When a band contacts me it is much the same
way. I can accept or decline. I’ve declined a few in my time. Korn comes to mind. Its management team wanted to fly me to Los
Angeles for a meet-and-greet and set me up with the band for a one-on-one. I was scheduled to interview the Misfits at
the same time, so I declined, which led to Korn’s people saying, “What have the
Misfits done lately?” (At the time, American Psycho was just due to come out
after the band’s apparent demise many, many years earlier.) I replied, “You know what? Korn is just another boy band to me, and I’d
turn it down even if I wasn’t busy.”
That went over horribly, but it’s Korn.
Who cares? The guys can’t even
spell.

This is what it looks like when cartoons come to life.

Back when I wrote for Tattoo
Savage I was assigned band interviews from time to time. I actually helped start its music section, so
when something needed to be covered, I was the guy the editor called. She knew I could make deadline, and I rarely
turned down a piece. One of those bands
I was assigned turned out to be so horrible that I can’t even remember most of
the interview, only the problems associated with it. That band in question? Coal Chamber.

Coal Chamber’s first big release had just come out, and I
was reviewing it for the magazine. The
editor at Savage thought an interview
would be a good idea. Since I needed
money, I accepted. I had, as always, a
deadline I had to make, so I quickly drafted some questions and called the band’s
PR guy to set up an interview. I got a
date and time a few days in the future, and then I waited.

When the time came, Coal Chamber did something no other band
has done to me – it skipped out on the interview, which was thankfully to be
done by phone. I’ve had bands be late to
interviews (The Offspring had a bus breakdown when I interviewed it right after
it broke the Billboard charts, but still made the interview despite being hours
late and needing to set up for the show), but this was new to me. It was unprofessional and annoying. The band was not a huge name, but the
magazine I was interviewing it for was a big deal, so blowing off the interview
was not a smart move.

The next two calls I made met with the same results. The PR guy was an apologist for the band,
which means he played his role just right.
He didn’t care that I had a deadline, which was fast approaching, and cared
even less that if I didn’t get an interview in then the magazine would have a
lot of white space to fill. Eventually he
told me to call in about three days because the band had a break on its tour
and some down time, so it would be the perfect opportunity to get my interview
done. The band, he assured me, was
excited to talk to me.

Should I have been surprised? No.

I called and finally got a hold of them, and then they turned
out to be the worst thing an artist or entertainer could be: boring. I’ve had bands that weren’t the most
talkative or interesting, but I’ve managed to turn the interview into something
worth reading. A few questions in told
me that would not be the case here.

When I interview a band I have some generic questions to
fall back on in case the band member is a bit of a bore. These questions usually lead to interesting
stories that I can actually work a readable interview out of, but that was not
happening here. I had to use all my
standard questions, and I was getting one word answers to all of them. When I
pressed for stories, I would get nothing.
At one point I fell back to one of the questions I hated to ask, but figured
it would, at the very least, lead the interview in a new direction that I could
capitalize on to save the sinking ship.
I asked one of the members what he would be doing if he weren’t in the
band. It was a throw-away question, but
I figured I would have to get something good out of it. Again, I was disappointed. “I don’t know,” he replied. “Working at McDonald’s?”

Yes, that was his answer, and it was somehow fitting. If he wasn’t in Coal Chamber he’d be fucking
up your order in the drive thru.

I ended the interview frustrated and angry. I had to take the band’s horrid answers and
formulate them into something someone would want to read. I was able to do it, and it was published,
but it was a mess and embarrassing. I
told the editor I would never deal with the band again, and after hearing how
it went, she decided that the magazine would be steering clear of it all
together after my piece ran. I’ve
ignored the band ever since, too, but whenever I pass a McDonald’s I have to
wonder if that guy ever found his true calling.
Who knows? By now he may have
promoted to assistant manager, but I doubt it.

Mandatory FTC Disclaimer: Clicking on a link may earn me so cold hard cash used to buy anything but Coal Chamber releases.

Sunday, September 15, 2013

How do you take a band called Foreskin 500 seriously? What happens when it puts out a release
called Manpussy? Well, you put it in the player and are blown
away in so many different ways. That’s
when you take it seriously … kind of.
(And as aside, do not do an
image search for the band and album unless you are prepared for what you might
see.)

From the ashes of Warlock Pinchers, Foreskin 500 made its
brief mark on the music world as a hybrid metal/industrial band, allegedly
playing its first show with the infamous Pigface. With three releases (and a few singles) under
its belt, my exposure to them came with the 1994 Basura!/Priority Records
release mentioned earlier. I bought it
strictly because of the Warlock Pinchers connection. I kept playing it because it is so good.

After a short intro plays, “Ticket to Hell,” opens the CD
with the proverbial bang. If I raced
cars on any kind of level beyond video games, this is the song I’d play right
before the race. It’s a fast, brutal
speaker burner that you think would set the tone for the rest of the release,
but then “Permatortise” starts and the whole mood changes to something more
psychedelic. It is one of the strangest
transitions on a CD I’ve ever heard, but somehow it works. How? Sort
of the same way John Christopher’s The Little People works – it just does.

The rest of Manpussy
follows the same eclectic suit. You hear
an adrenaline pumper like “Highway 69,” and you think you are back on the
standard metal/industrial track and then “Kiss Me” happens. It all makes for a release that is equal part
schizophrenic and brilliant composition.
It evokes little in the way of actual emotions, though, but it does get
the heart pumping.

Foreskin 500 holds a special place in the music collection
of those who are fortunate enough to remember the band. And while it isn’t like Warlock Pinchers, it
is a natural progression from where that band was headed. I find myself listening to it less these
days, but when I do revisit it I enjoy it just as much as I did on the first
day I heard it, and there aren’t a lot of releases I can say that about
anymore.

Mandatory FTC Disclaimer: I paid for this, idiots! Clicking on a link may earn me some dough.

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Magic? Anger? Experimental nonsense? Nazis on a warpath? Death in June’s All Pigs Must Die has been called all those things. No matter what you call it, though, it is
amazing.

The story behind the album goes something like this: Douglas
Pearce, Death in June’s masked face, had some issues with the business
practices of World Serpent Distribution, a company he helped create. When Pearce finally got fed up, he made this
album as a ritualized magic attack to take it down. Yes, that’s the story, and if you don’t
believe it keep in mind that Pearce himself has called the release “a cleaning,
an act of revenge and contempt.” (Take
that, Rage Against the Machine.)

Regardless of what one thinks of that tale, the 2001 result
is a stunning work of art just shy of 40 minutes in scope. Part neofolk and part experimental mind
destroyer, these 11 songs will have an effect on you … and for some, that
effect is far from positive. There are
people cannot stand to listen to the songs because they sound so “wrong” and
“evil.” Others, like myself, have no
problem with Pearce’s “We Said Destroy II” and “Ride Out!” And yes, that is Boyd Rice doing the
narration. (More magic at work.)

Just looking at the cover of All Pigs Must Die lets you know you aren’t in for the usual Death
in June release. A masked Pearce wielding
a knife amongst the Three Little Pigs makes for quite an alarming photo. It looks clandestine. It looks sinister. It looks like a warning, and it is a running
theme throughout the work. When you play
it … well, that feeling doesn’t go away.

The title song is the first thing you’ll hear on the album. It’s a calm, though somewhat disturbing tune. “Tick Tock” is next, and is the first time
listeners hear Rice’s voice. It’s also
calm and somewhat uncomfortable. Song
five is where it all starts to change.
“We Said Destroy II,” mentioned earlier, kicks the spell into full gear
and takes any previous serenity and extinguishes it. By the end of the album, senses are left
reeling and fans divided.

I know where I stand on this release. It has been said it is too self-indulgent,
and that is true, but that is what makes it so remarkable. It can’t be anymore self-indulgent actually,
but it’s that way for a reason. It was created
with one thing in mind (and it should be noted that World Serpent did go out of
business), and that “thing” beats the usual self-indulgence that is really just
nonsense masked as soul-cleansing. Pearce’s
agenda here makes this unique in the annals of music history. He understands that music can be magic
(something I believe the old blues performers understood, too) better than any
other performer alive today, and that shows here. Death in June has rarely disappointed me, and
this is no exception.

Mandatory FTC Disclaimer: I did not receive this for review. If you click on a link, you may earn me a commission.

Saturday, February 16, 2013

There are about three bands I’m interested in seeing live
these days. Well, that may be a bit of
an understatement. I’d see anything on
Voodoo Rhythm’s label, so that’s a stable of bands. The other two are Death in June and NashvillePussy. When I got word that Nashville
Pussy was coming to Humboldt in February (Valentine's Week, no less), I was filled with the kind of internal conflict
you only read about in literature or see in movies like Twilight or Throw Momma From
the Train.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see the band. Far from it.
The problem was that there were two things keeping me from buying a
ticket. One: there would be people
there. I hate people. I don’t mind them individually, but put them
in a group and suddenly what was tolerable on a one-on-one basis produces the
most murderous thoughts in my mind. As
if the fact that Nashville Pussy wasn’t putting on a personal show for me
wasn’t enough, there was the second problem:
the venue, which was Hum Brews … in Arcata, California. Arcata is one of those places I do my best to
avoid. The people, the “vibe,” and even
the town’s layout makes me froth at the mouth as if imitating Cujo. If Al Qaeda was taking a poll of places one
would most like a dirty bomb to be detonated, Arcata would have my vote. Sayonara, Trust Fund Babies.

Then there was the fact that it was on Sunday night and I
had to be at work early Monday morning.
That barely registered on the radar, as I usually only get three to four
hours of sleep a night, but I’d be lying to say that time wasn’t a factor.

I remained conflicted right about up until the show
date. It seemed like an easy choice –
just fucking go. It really doesn’t get
much easier than that. For me, however,
the cons were outweighing the positives.
Arcata. People. In order to help mitigate this mental
stalemate, I decided to repeatedly call Hum Brews. I figured if the show started just about on
time and there was no opening band, I could actually tolerate the event. So, a few days prior to the show I started
calling, and must have done so about five times. Every time I called I spoke to someone
different. Every time I got the same
answer. Band takes the stage at nine. No opening band. I figured that really meant the band would go
on at 9:30, but I was convinced there would be no lame-ass opener. I was partially right.

Butter Licker, RC/DC and I arrived at Hum Brews around ten
of eight. Why? None of us knew. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I do know it wasn’t to take in Arcata’s atmosphere. College kids who can’t handle their organic
liquor and aimless thirtysomethings whose chief goal in life is to win the Pot
Olympics are hardly people I want to converse with in any capacity other than
to say, “Sorry I ran over you with my car.”
Since the show wasn’t set to start for about another hour, we waited,
watched hockey coverage on television and had discussions about the fluid
nature of reality and stealing artwork.
(Butter Licker did not like my example of the brain not being able to
react properly to what it was seeing, and RC/DC did not appreciate my approval
of art theft.)

About quarter after nine, the doors to the band area opened
and we are the first through after paying our admission. My initial thought was that the area was
small and the stage far too compact. A bar
at the back of the room promised that if the music wasn’t your thing,
overpriced drinks could soothe your savage soul. We ended up taking a seat against the far
wall. I figured the band would take the
stage in about fifteen minutes, sweat like hell, and we’d call it an evening.

By the time 10:30 reared its head, I was getting antsy. The guy who let us through the doors had told
me that Nashville Pussy’s rider said “no openers,” but when the band members
got there they were apparently surprised by the fact that there was no opening
band. My guess is that they expected to
go on around 10:30 because that would give the opening band time to do its
magic. When the musicians saw there was
no opener they took it easy backstage and then came out to kick ass.

The crowd was small, though I wasn’t too surprised. Arcata, while playing host to a lot of
various musical acts, has little in the way of what I would call “good taste in
music.” Stale hip hop, faux indie
a-go-go, and the ever-present reggae crap is the town’s musical backbone and it
leaves much to be desired, though the people eat it up and little else. The band took to the stage, however, and just
started blasting through its sleazy Southern rock as if it were playing to an
arena-sized crowd. One song after another
with little banter in between. There was
a moment when the singer, Blaine Cartwright, dedicated a song to Humboldt
because he’s a lifelong “pothead” and we’ve been keeping the quality up and
making America realize weed isn’t so bad.
(I guess those aimless thirtysomethings have something they can take
pride in after all. Let’s hear it for
personal achievements!) Nashville Pussy
played a bunch of my favorites. “Go to
Hell.” “Hitchhike Down to Cincinnati and
Kick the Shit Out of Your Drunk Daddy,” “Wrong Side of a Gun,” “Struttin’ Cock”
and so on. Beautiful. Insane.
Tight. I had reviewed some of the
band’s work back when I used to write for Tattoo Savage, and I can safely say the years have done little to slow the act
down. That said, there was a new
addition to the band that caught my attention.

Butter Licker snapped this of Buitrago in action.

I found it fairly hard to ignore the bassist, Bonnie
Buitrago, who was filling in for the super cool Karen Cuda while she was taking
a break from the tour. She was playing
with a wild skill and abandon that floored me.
Few things in life are sexier than a woman kicking ass at something she
is really good at doing. Butter Licker agreed
with me. RC/DC didn’t, but only because
she wasn’t paying attention. I, on the
other hand, barely noticed the rest of the band. Buitrago was that demanding of my attention.

All in all, I made it through the night without gutting
someone and had a pretty damn good time.
Nobody from Arcata attempted any kind of lame conversation with me, much
to both of our good fortune, though Butter Licker was touched by someone she
and RC/DC dubbed “Molester.” Arcata
didn’t give me some rare disease, either, and the only downside of the night
was the ringing in my ears that served as a reminder that I was at a great show.

Still, fuck Arcata.
Enjoy the dirty bomb.

Mandatory FTC Disclaimer: I paid to get in the show. Clicking on a link can earn me a commission.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

The story goes like this: Mama Rosin and HipboneSlim and the Kneetremblers met in France while performing at a blues festival’s
Voodoo Rhythm jam stage. You can’t
really say the rest is history because there was no history until this release,
Louisiana Sun, came out. Mama Rosin together with Hipbone Slim and the
Kneetremblers. If you are familiar with
the two bands, your reaction was probably a lot like mine. “What?”

Mama Rosin is Cajun from Switzerland. Hipbone is rockabilly from London. Both bands are terrific in their own right,
but when you first think of their sound combined … well, it’s not exactly
peanut butter and chocolate. Then you
hear “Voodoo Walking” and think, “Okay, this is going to work.”

The two bands complement each other so well that it
sounds like a brand new musical entity, though you can hear elements of the
bands in each song. If you are familiar
with the bands, you can’t help but be a little mystified by it all. If you never heard either band before, you’d
be hard-pressed to figure out where one band begins and the other ends. It sounds like one cohesive unit of musicians
who have been playing together for years.

There are a dozen songs to choose from here. Not a single one is over three-and-a-half
minutes long. Not a single one is a
disappointment, unless you don’t like this type of music. I’m a fan of Cajun and rockabilly done
Voodoo-style, however. Foreigners once
again prove they can do our music better than ourselves. They still believe there’s magic in it,
something that was beat out of our musicians in the ‘80s. And for you surf fanatics, the title track is
a take on “California Sun.” You know the
song. It’s been in about 800
commercials. It sounds better here.

Another brilliant release from Voodoo Rhythm.

Mandatory FTC Disclaimer: I DID receive this CD to review, and clicking on a link=commission.

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

If you are a fan of the Dwarves, Lick It is a bit of an oddity. If you look at the rest of the band's rather large idiscography, this one stands out as being different.

The band, which has put out releases like Blood Guts & Pussy, and once offered George W. Bush the rights to use its song "River City Rapist" for his presidential campaign, put out this two album (different colored vinyl to boot) release on Recess Records. For people used to the sounds of Thank Heaven For Little Girls and Free Cocaine, this is a bit of a shock. It is the band's ... psychedelic years. Sorta.

This is some psychedelic stuff from the band's early days. Songs like "Eat My Dinner," "Love Gestapo" and "I'm a Living Sickness" all have moments where you can hear the Dwarves that made such classics as "Demented" and "We Must Have Blood." The difference is so glaring, however, that when I first bought this set I had a hard time enjoying it. I'm not into psychedelic music all that much, and the Dwarves I like is the one that sings about Satan and tooling for warm teabags. "Chocolate River"? Really?

Now, as I write this, I sit on my couch. The only light is the computer and a candle. My fan is going, and Lick It is playing on my crappy turntable, which fits the sound just right. Since purchasing this around 2000, it has grown on me. In this atmosphere, after a stressful day of work, another phone call to a lawyer, putting in for writing jobs -- it all comes across as something kind of beautiful in its own weird way.

I don't think many people would find the Dwarves to be stress relief, but this double album works. Maybe that says all the wrong things about me. Then again, maybe it says everything that is right.

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

The early '80s. I was exposed to Sigue Sigue Sputnik by People of all things. The look of the band is what caught my eye. The description of its music let me know I was on the right track.

The band's name was supposedly taken from a Russian youth gang and was said to translate to "Burn Burn Satellite." This has been disputed. Other names the band had toyed with were Sperm Festival and, one I really like for reasons clear to anyone who knows me well, Nazi Occult Bureau. The band was described by founding member Tony James as "hi-tech sex and designer violence." The music was rock with a liberal dose of sampling and electronic mayhem. Commercial space was sold on the albums, and the look always mattered more than the sounds the band produced. It was the 2000s before we knew what was possible. All style. All sex. All violence. Girls. Rockets. Voodoo.

In a word: cool.

I've always been interested in bands that have an interesting look. (Hence part of my obsession with Death in June.) Marilyn Manson and company are not eye catching enough for me. In fact, the lads seem to fit a stereotype more than anything else. Sputnik, however, was all high hair in an explosion of color, torn fishnets, and cod pieces. Sperm festival, indeed.

When I eventually found the first album, Flaunt It, on cassette in a music store located in the Leigh Valley Mall, I raced home and played it as soon as I could. It was ... amazing. Crazy. Frantic. Chaotic. Ripsaw guitars. It conjured up images of neon-lit human sacrifices in Times Square on New Year's Eve. If drug-fueled group sex had a sound, this was it, and I was hooked.

The band eventually split and reunited several times. (Interestingly, the original vocalist, Martin Degville is reported to have made "specialist porn films" after the first break up. I can see that, and it isn't pretty.) That seems to be the way for many bands. Sputnik, however, never seemed to click like that first round. The world it had helped usher in, was beyond them now. As a culture, we left irony behind because we thought were above it. We were, however, knee deep in it, but we became so distracted with technology and consumerism that we missed the signposts. 2008 gave fans a compilation and nothing more since. The satellite burned. The designer violence wasn't as cool in a world where school shootings and 9/11 were fresh in people's short-lived memories. Hi-tech sex had been replaced by Internet masturbation to videos of two girls sharing a cup. Sputnik, once cutting-edge, seemed quaint and, yes, ridiculous.

I still listen to the band. I still crave those strange Japanese influences and fascination with A Clockwork Orange. The world may have changed. Bands that were influenced by Sputnik have gone on to have some great careers. I still have the memories, though.

And it would have been so much cooler if the boys had stuck to Nazi Occult Bureau.

Saturday, June 16, 2012

Sublime. Originally released as Walter Carlos' Clockwork Orange in 1972, it was later titled Wendy Carlos's [sic] Clockwork Orange upon rerelease as an "enchanced CD" in 1998. Being a huge fan of A Clockwork Orange, I had to have it. It is pure magic.

The electronic music was made by Wendy (at that time still Walter) after she released Switched-On Bach. She and producer Rachel Elkind had started messing with a spectrum follower, an electronic device that converts sound into electronic signals that mimic the rhythms and overtones of the original sampling. They wanted to make the first electronic "vocal" work and had picked the Choral Movement from the Ninth Symphony (Beethoven, of course) for this. In the midst of doing this, Carlos was introduced Anthony Burgess' novel. It inspired Carlos to create a musical "poem" of the book. At this point, Carlos learned that Stanley Kubrick had finished a film version of the historical novel, and a meeting occured. Some of the music Carlos had created was used in the film. This release is not the film soundtrack, but the book soundtrack, if you will.

If you enjoy electronic music and classical music, this is a must have. If you are a fan of A Clockwork Orange, this is also mandatory. Unfortunately, fans of all these things are mostly unaware of the existence of this release. I have included a link to the release on Amazon, but be warned, it is going for over $50, and I am not selling mine.

Mandatory FTC Disclaimer: I did not receive this to review. If you click on the link I may earn a commission.